


Ricochet

by ScullysGone



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 04:25:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12786924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullysGone/pseuds/ScullysGone
Summary: How do you carry enough love for your whole world? When William returns, two worlds collide.





	Ricochet

**Author's Note:**

> A labor of deep love...William is home. 
> 
> I can't explain the circumstances, because I didn't make anything up beyond the deaths of the Van de Kamps (only a vague reference) and William being with Mulder and Scully. He's home, but he's broken. Torn. 
> 
> But things that are broken can be put back together...sometimes...

“William?”

Mulder’s voice fills the hollow spaces in his head; he blinks, trying to focus.

“What? I…”

“You didn't hear me, did you?”

He shakes his head. Dammit. That's the third time in less than half a day, and at least the hundredth in the last week. 

“No, sir. I'm sorry.”

“Let’s make like a tree, and get out of here.”

Mulder loves well-placed movie references. For some reason, he is particularly fond of   
“Back To The Future” these days. Scully finally put her foot down and banned him from another outburst of “Great Scott!”. 

It’s comforting, the play between the two of them. It makes things feel a little more like home. 

He flinches, the familiar mix of guilt and comfort that invading him lately stabbing at his heart. His distraction from the present has become a hot topic of conversation between Mulder and Scully lately. 

He never eavesdrops; he doesn’t have to. Reuniting with Scully has done nothing to blur his connection to her. He still hears her in his heart, as clear as always. 

They are worried about him. He knows, but there is little he can do about it. Not without hurting them. Another invisible knife stabs him.

Mulder’s hand falls softly on his shoulder, a quiet summons; he stands without protest. Mulder has a way, not unlike his own. He used to think it was part of his talent, but he knows now it came from Mulder. Genetic inheritance. A gift from the father he knew only in his mother’s memories. 

He can control it in a way Mulder will likely never be able to. The only things he can’t control now seem to be his own emotions; they are coming dangerously close to destroying everything he holds dear. 

Keys fly through the air and he snatches them with ease.

“How ’bout you drive me around for a change?”

Mulder stretches in the summer air and slides into the passenger seat.

“Sure. Where do you want to go?”

 

“Let the wind guide you, Son. We’ve got nothing but time and open road.”

He drops into the driver’s seat, turns the engine over and does his best to empty his thoughts. Mulder turns on the radio, a welcome substitute for the questions he knows the man next to him wants to ask. Before long, they settle onto an open two-lane to the soul-stirring tenor of Don Henley. 

It takes a little over two hours before William makes his way down an unmarked county road, onto an abandoned dirt driveway. The house at the end of the drive stands like a faded monument to days gone by. Cracked and faded paint. Shutters half-unhinged, hanging crooked beside broken window panes. Rusted metal screens and long-dead shingles. 

There’s little to be desired in the way of real estate. Instinctually, Mulder knows this house. Without a word, as the tires grabbed pavement, he had watched William and knew the car would take them exactly where his son needed to go.

When they came to a stop in front of the forsaken wood-frame house, William cut the engine. He sat silent for a few moments, hands at ten-and-two, and stared at the empty field beyond the rotten cedar-post fence. 

A father knows when his son is hurting, and though every cell in his body wanted to hold him, Mulder keeps his distance. William isn’t a child anymore; he is a man. And men need to heal by their own rules. 

When he steps out of the car, Mulder doesn’t immediately follow; he waits until William moves toward the house. He quietly closes the passenger door and moves into an easy lean on the driver’s side quarter panel. 

Where he waits again, as his son climbs the steps of the broken house and travels back in time. 

_______________________________________________

Standing on the near-rotten deck of the front porch he can almost hear humming, floating on the heady aroma of hand-kneaded bread rising in the oven. A baseball game is playing on the old radio in the barn, just off the back porch. His dogs, Ollie and Strap, sleeping under his climbing tree, dreaming deeply of wiley rabbits and conquering Old Man Carter’s cattle. The memories are heavy on his shoulders; he takes a knee under their weight.

“This is where I grew up,” he says to the empty air and haunted shadows.

He runs his fingers over the tiny impressions in concrete steps at the edge of the wood. He was so small when they added the new steps, barely able to climb them two at a time. But, he had been big enough to help. Carrying boards from the barn. Fetching boxes of nails. Bringing cold water and sandwiches at lunch time. When it was finally time, helping mix concrete until his arms ached and his chest swelled with pride at the man’s work he had accomplished. 

“These are my hand prints. Jesus, I never realized how little I was. I mean, I was young, but I felt so much bigger inside.”

He runs his fingers across the top step.

“I helped build these steps. My dad-”

He breaks of the word like a ten-pound sledge hammer through glass. He swallows hard, forcing pain he isn’t ready to taste back into his soul; it burns him. 

“John let me bring wood and nails for the frame, and I helped with the concrete. It was hard work, because I was young. I got to do a lot of things like that growing up.”

Looking over the railing at the barn, he remembers helping with the tractor. Greasing the fittings and checking fluid levels. Operating the bucket or the hay fork. He remembers the time he wasn’t paying attention and ran through the vegetable garden; how terrible he felt that he had been so careless. He never made that mistake again. 

He walks down the steps, moving around to the rear of the house. He doesn’t notice as Mulder slowly follows. Standing under his climbing tree, he cranes his neck to look up to the very top of the towering oak. He had almost been to the top, all the way to the very highest branches. He had tried to touch the leaves that soak up sun the shaded ground beneath would never see.

“I broke my arm right here.”

He kneels down and pulls a handful of weeds. 

“I was alone, or I thought I was. Mom-”

He curses internally and starts over.

“Emily was working on something for the church, so I came outside. I told her I was going to be in my tree.”

He is far away again, talking mostly to the air. 

“I wanted to practice my gift. I didn’t think I’d get caught. I could move things with my mind. Anything I wanted. I had been practicing moving myself. My body. I wanted to see if I could make myself fly. It was working, too. I was concentrating so hard my head hurt, but it was working. I was halfway up the tree. I was headed for the very top. I was so focused, my nose started bleeding onto my shirt, but I didn’t care. I could see so far.”

He turns abruptly and looks to the back door, lying in a death-fall on the back porch; the empty hole stares back in mocking omission. It’s gone. Just like everything else this house had held dear to him. 

“That’s when I heard the screen door open. It scared me. Broke my concentration and fell to the ground right here. It knocked the wind out of me, broke my arm and knocked me out cold. But I can still remember hearing mo-...Emily scream. I remember the fear in her eyes. And John’s. I scared them so bad...I never tried again.”

He is staring blankly at the empty house.

”I had this friend. He was a brother. He knew about me; about what can do. He was the kind of guy that it didn't matter, you know? I could do what I do and he never laughed, or freaked out. He was just good like that. When we hung out, Booker would always say he was glad he had a normal friend; that everybody else was just too weird to be around.”

He smiles, remembering Boker’s crooked grin.

“I have never been self-conscious about what I can do. But he didn't know that. And he made sure I knew he didn't care I was different than him.” 

He looks at the tree again. Memories as numerous as the brilliant leaves fill his mind’s eye. 

“We used to spend hours in this tree, and we would climb so high. So much higher than I ever climbed after I fell; I didn’t want to scare them anymore. But Book, he would always climb to the top. And he never worried about falling. He knew I would catch him.”

For the first time since they arrived, William looks at Mulder. His eyes, so much like Scully’s, are holding in a pain Mulder hasn’t seen since he looked into Scully’s so long ago. And just like her, William’s tears fall down his face in stoic silence.

“They loved me. My parents. Even Booker. And I loved them. And I don’t know how to grieve for them without hurting you and Scully. I don’t know how to talk about them without using the words ‘parents’ or ‘mom and dad’. I don’t know how to tell you how much I loved them, how much I miss them, and still make you understand how much I love you both.” 

Mulder steps closer to his son and squares his shoulders. So this is what is breaking William’s heart. The idea that he has to choose which family to love.

“William, you are the life of our love. You are the perfect whole of the best parts of us. Half Scully. Half me. By biology, that makes us your mother and father. But we weren’t your parents for most of your life. The woman who gave her love to you, who fed you, kept you safe and washed your hair, kissed your scrapes and straightened your tie; that woman will always be your ‘mom’. Nothing will ever change that.”

His heart hurts for his son. And for himself. If only they had been there for him. But he couldn’t change the past. He can only do whatever his son needs to heal.

“John will always hold the same distinction. There is a world of difference between who your ‘dad’ was, and who your ‘father’ is. There will never be a single moment in our lives that Scully and I don’t thank God you had such wonderful parents, William. Beyond the pain of letting you go, Scully has been tormented by the fear that she gave you into the hands of an unworthy family.”

William sniffs and nods, wiping his face with the back of his hand. 

“I know; I’ve always been able to hear her. Just like you can hear me now.”

Mulder understands.

“I had a brother, Samuel. He died in an accident, and sometimes I would hear Emily crying. I could hear her crying, and I could hear Scully crying. I would go to my mom and hold her while she cried for the son she lost. And I would hold Scully.”

The hand covered in his tears lowers to his chest, covering his heart.

“In here. She’s always been in here. So have you. I could see you, through her. See your worry for her. And for me. You never shared it with her, but she knew. And, so I knew. I’ve always had you both right here with me.”

“You never have to choose, William. Not ever. Don’t waste another second thinking you have to decide which of your families to love. Love us all. Love us all every damn day we have left, and never forget that we all have loved you every second of your life.”

Mulder feels his own tears, his mind made up to ask for the thing he’s wanted for so long. To ask his son for the one thing he’s never been able to give Scully.

“Maybe, someday, you could move Scully into a place alongside Emily. Maybe, you could make room in there for her to be ‘mom’ for this part of your life. She desperately wants to be that for you, son.”

William smiles at Mulder, a broad goofy grin that seems all too familiar.

“She’s always been there. I just didn’t know how to tell her. Not without feeling like it would hurt Emily. But, now I know...”

They walk to the car, Mulder’s arm around his son’s shoulder. The change in William is almost palpable; he seems taller than the moments before, when the weight of his two worlds was crushing him. 

Mulder feels the same excitement he felt when William returned so many months ago. Yes, he thinks, their world is about to change again.

“So, where are we headed this time?”

“Let’s go home. Home to Mom.”

Mulder doesn’t try to hid his smile.

“Sounds good, son. Just make sure you have enough road to get up to eighty-eight miles and hour.”

With dramatic flare that can only come from his father’s genes, William slides on his Ray Bans and adjusts the rear view. He shifts the car into gear, grips the steering wheel and gives his blissful father a heartfelt “Great Scott!!”

**Author's Note:**

> Please drop me a line if you enjoyed the story :-) I do hope you did!


End file.
